No shade to break the sun
No drop of gin to wet the whistle
Until the day is done
No barricade from flinging grit
Kicked up by him in lead
As dirt and dust flung far and wide
By a madly galloping stead
No way to dodge the shifting winds
Painting him red and black
With the sands of the desert lands
That surround his run down shack
Sweat trickling race tracks down his skin
Forging clean lines through the dirt
Plastering sodden to his back
The red checkered flanno shirt
A water skin hangs full and sloshing
Tied about a dusty waist
Tepid and warm but still refreshing
When the rider has a taste
No respite from aching muscles
No reprieve from red hot sand
No real want to escape his life
Has this harshly sun kissed man